A Prince of Asgard
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Asgard is mourning. Her eldest son and the All-Father prepare for the funeral of the queen. The younger son remains in the shadows-seemingly uncaring. But a young guard suspects otherwise-and upon the night the lanterns light the sky, he is forced to tell his prince the truth.


_He ought to know. _

I suffered an odd pang in my chest as this thought flashed across my mind. I watched Prince Thor and the All-Father stride slowly away from me down the dim corridor, past the feeble flicker of the torches, toward the chamber where the queen lay in state. Their dress capes trailed behind them, their usual bright colors listless. The sheen of their magnificent armor dulled, as did the sounds of their footfalls.

I gripped my spear and took a bracing breath, absently realizing that my step had hitched, and I had paused completely at the sight of my sovereigns' passage.

_He knows. Or he will. They shall tell him, if they have not already. _

I continued down the long passageway, my steps practiced and measured. I glimpsed several courtiers as they whispered through the winding ways, garbed in mourning and robed in silence, their eyes downcast, their lips pale. All of them made for the same destination: the balconies overlooking the harbor.

_They have told him. Soon, a guard detail will come down to escort him to the ceremony._

I trotted down, down, down the stairs, my golden armor jingling, and passed into the heavy shadows of the torchlit dungeons. Danehall, standing at attention near the entrance, glanced at me—the light from the cell walls flashed off his helmet.

"I am here to relieve you," I said to him, keeping my voice even lower than usual. "When will he be taken up?"

Danehall frowned, his blue eyes finding mine.

"Taken up?"

"Yes—to the ceremony," I clarified. Danehall shook his head.

"I've received no such orders."

I blinked.

"What orders have you received?"

"None at all regarding him," he replied, stepping past me. "All that I know is that I am to be a part of the king's entourage, and you are to stay here."

I did not dare press for more information, or express my confusion as a deeper pang coursed through me. I had just joined the royal guard, after all. I knew very little about the subtleties of the comings and goings of the royal house, or what its members expected from one another. It was not my place to interfere. I only needed to follow orders.

Danehalls' armor-clad boots clacked as the ascended the stairs, and the noise soon faded into the distance. I turned.

I was the only one guarding the dungeon. The entire space stood quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the cells' glowing shields. I swallowed, eyeing one cell in particular, but I was unable to see its occupant from the place where I hesitated.

_They have told him. Surely they have._

My skin shivered. I had never been accused of being cowardly, but this—this was different. A weight pressed on my chest and shoulders as I stepped forward, my brow furrowing.

There.

There he sat, languid as a snake in a cage, his legs stretched out before him, a book held up before his pale, angular profile. The whole of his features and bearing bespoke aloof coldness, and elegant superiority. A man of fine breeding, culture, education and poise. A man who did not simply play at being prince—but _was _one, in his blood, marrow and breath.

I was afraid of him.

I was the mere son of a blacksmith who had been fortunate enough and skilled enough to be made armor-hammerer for the courtiers. In my youth, I had entertained dreams of being a scholar, or a bard. But my calloused-handed father had soon dissuaded me, and set me on the path to becoming one of the elite Aesir guardsmen. I had done my best, to please him. And at last I had proven myself enough times to win a place amongst them—but so far, I had only ever been assigned to watchman's duty in the dungeons.

At night.

And thus, night after night, without fail, I had stood watch over this prince—this fine and icy figure with the aspect of black stone. I knew his name, of course. I had often heard, in respectful murmurs, of his lethal reputation upon the battlefield, in campaigns that had now ascended to legend. Talk of his feats intimidated even the mightiest amongst our ranks—and I certainly never gave aloud my opinions or wonderings concerning what he may have done during his mysterious absence from Asgard.

And now, during his imprisonment, he did little except read the stack of ancient, priceless books stacked on his hand-carved table. In one half-mad moment nary a week ago, I had almost dared asked him which book it was he held, and what it was about. But I had shaken back to sanity when he had arisen, and begun pacing slowly to and fro, a gathering squall on his brow, and lightning in his eyes. This remained his steady state, for days on end—a restless wind beneath a veneer of marble.

Except when she had come.

An illusion of the queen herself—graceful, soft and golden-haired, blooming like a lily within those stark confines. Then, the edges of stone had eased, the lightning had calmed, and the clouds had dissipated. The blazing emerald eyes, piercing as a narrow razor, had lost their sting entirely, and had gained an open, youthful brilliance that dissolved the frost, and enlivened the granite of his frame.

On such occasions I had watched, stricken from afar, and altered in my view of him. Something lay beneath that iron surface. Something of flesh rather than rock. Something like a beating heart.

_But now she is dead. And still he sits. _

I hesitated again.

Our dear and beauteous queen had been killed in the attack yesterday, and had lain in state—swathed in flowers—all of this day. Yet this dark prince had never stirred. His marble expression had not changed, never shifted beyond mild curiosity at the altered patterns of the guards that strode through. At table earlier this noon, I had mutely listened to the other guards as they had discussed him. How cold his heart must be, if he has one! they said. What a deadly, dangerous and ruthless man. He simply does not care.

But I had seen his face—I had watched and felt the change that had transformed it at the sight of her.

And the longer I stood there in breathless silence of that prison, the more I came to realize…

_No. He does care._

_ He simply does not know._

My right hand twitched. My left slackened on my spear. I gritted my teeth, hard. And a shudder ran through my bones.

I carefully set my spear against the wall, and stepped toward him.

My feet were too loud.

The edge of his eyebrow twitched as my heels scuffed the floor. He did not move.

I clamped my fists, and approached the wall of the cell.

And I inclined my head.

"Your Highness."

My voice—a voice that had never addressed him—came out quieter than I wished. But I could not help it. His frame shifted—just minutely. And his elegant head tilted toward me.

He waited.

"I have been told to inform you…" I lied. And then I took the most painful breath of my life. "…that the queen was killed yesterday morning, when Malekith, king of the dark elves, and his army attacked the palace. The All-Father is conducting her funeral as I speak."

I stopped. I had nothing more to say.

For a moment, the prince did nothing.

Then, he gave me one, definitive nod. He never looked at me.

I backed away.

And I held my breath.

Slowly, he stood up. He paced away from me, turning his back. He remained motionless in the center of the cell—carven and utterly still.

And then…

Power, in the very air, twitched and rippled—invisible but as potent as a winter wind—and rushed to his calling, flying to his waiting hands.

And then it _burst_, with the force of an explosion, crushing the furniture within to flinders.

I threw myself out of sight, into the threshold of the entrance, so that he could not see me—pressing my back against the wall and squeezing my eyes shut.

He screamed.

He kicked a piece of furniture—stumbled brokenly over it.

I winced.

He clawed the walls—I could hear his fingers raking across the shields. It grated my nerves, flaying them raw.

He howled threats at me—threats that echoed through the entire chamber, bashing against the stones. He called me a coward, a liar. He threatened to cut out my traitorous tongue.

He ordered me to set him free.

I fought to keep breathing, to resist his keening pleas and his biting commands. I forced my eyes open, but I saw nothing. I heard everything.

He wailed for his mother. He wailed like a child. He beat and kicked the solid walls. He threw and tore the books.

The restless wind, the lightning, the squall broke loose—and the veneer shattered. The marble broke to pieces. The ice rained down from around him as his dignity, his poise, his shield, fell apart and away.

An eternity later, I gasped in a breath. My eyes blurred. I battled to focus.

The cell had gone quiet.

A dart of panic shot through me, and I stood away from the wall. I started toward the cell, halted…

And saw blood smeared across the floor.

Terror flooded me. I hurried forward…

He sat back against the far wall, one leg bent, the other stretched out. His extended bare foot streamed blood. His black hair had been ripped, his collar flung open. His face was white as snow, his eyes gray. Tears trailed down his cheeks, and dripped from his chin.

He was breathing.

He blinked slowly, and shadowed eyes wandered across the emptiness to fix upon me.

For the first time, he looked at me.

"Oh. There you are, Erinvane," he said, hoarse and weary. The edge of his mouth minutely curled up. "Never mind."

My heart stopped.

He knew my name. He had said _my_ name.

I blinked. He closed his eyes.

I turned and ran.

I raced up the stairs, blinded, and charged down a towering, empty corridor toward the stables.

Suddenly, ahead of me, Danehall swung out of a side passage—and his eyes went wide as he saw me. I set my jaw, and pulled off my helmet.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

I shoved my helmet into his midsection. He barely caught it.

"I resign," I bit out, storming past him.

"What?" he cried, spinning to face me. "That's…That's treason!"

"Call it what you will," I snapped, turning on my heel to see him, and flinging my arms out to either side. "But I cannot serve a king who treats a prince of his house in that fashion. Not now or ever."

"You _cannot _mean that," Danehall stared at me.

"You believe he will have more regard for you, Danehall, son of a horse-breaker?" I demanded, locking his gaze with mine. "He will lead you to slaughter, my friend. And he will not blink when you are dead."

Danehall could not speak. I did not give him the chance. I turned my back on him, and made my way to the stables. And when I had found my long-maned horse, I saddled and mounted him—and then I rode him out into the summer night, away from Asgard, vowing that I would never return.

FIN


End file.
